


Time

by olivemartini



Series: the heavy hearts we hold together [8]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: Everything's fine, but not really, because now every time she looks at Reid there's this ache in her chest that won't go away.





	Time

She keeps telling herself that every thing is  _fine,_ really, even though it isn't, because now every time she looks over at Spencer she feels this little ache deep in her chest and can't help to remember that day in her office where they almost became something new but didn't quite make it there.  And now they're both left with this feeling of  _maybe we should have_ and  _it's probably better that we didn't_ and  _things like that always end badly_ swelling up whenever they have to come into contact with each other, putting a block between what they wanted and how they have to act now.

Beatrice doesn't like it.  She knows that there are more important things to worry about, because she's spinning around in this stupid leather chair in an office while searching for face recognition to turn up the identity of a dead man, but for some reason all she can think of is  _Reid, Reid, Reid._ She's still counting those careless touches that are happening between them, even if they make Spencer jittery now, and she's keeping track of all the stuttered sentences he starts and never seems able to finish.  

To get to the heart of things, she wasn't used to a Reid who felt like he needed to hide part of himself around her, and she was even less used to this feeling of discomfort bubbling in her stomach, so when she watches one of the new interns lean in and touch his arm with her hand, smiling and giggling in a way that Beatrice was never quite able to master ( _she thinks she was born unable to flirt like that, having a name like Beatrice does that to you_ ), she feels completely justified in turning right back around and walking back to her office without finishing her conversation with Morgan, head down so no one can see her face and moving so fast that the coffee in her cup sloshes onto the spotless tile floor.

It was intended to be a moment for her to calm down, to push her feelings deep where she wouldn't have to examine them too closely, but Morgan had taken it upon himself to follow her and close the door gently behind them, staring at her with a look that reminds her of her older brother.  "Come on, Bea."  He tugs on her pony tail, gently, and she collapses back into the chair even if all she really wants to do is tell him to go away.  She's learned that you just can't make Derek Morgan walk away from what he sees as a problem.  "Spill."

"I just really like him, you know?"  She picks at the ragged skin surrounding her nails, the same bit she had started to rip away last week during a particularly grisly case and was just now starting to heal.  

"Yeah."  He rests a heavy hand on her shoulder and she leans into it, trying not to think of how absurd this all was, how she keeps turning to  _Derek Morgan_ of all people whine about her boy problems.  Especially when the boy in question was a very good friend to both of them.  "I know."

"And so does he."  She tugs on her hair, feeling pathetically like this was college again and she was stressing over whether or not that cute boy who smiled at her actually liked her, but this was important somehow, real when nothing else was.  "And he's not doing anything about it."

"Give it time."  Morgan says, and she hears the unspoken weight in his words- about Mauve, and the ugly thing that was Spencer's parents relationship, and her unresolved issues with the ex boyfriend, and the nightmares that will haunt them no matter how many happy and beautiful things she creates to block them out.  And of course, the idea that maybe, just maybe, people in this line of work don't know how to be anything else than alone.  

Maybe it's better that way.

"Yeah," She says, and flinches away from the computer when the name pops up, because it wasn't a bad dead guy they found, it was a nice man with two kids and a good job and who teaches Sunday School on the weekends.  "Time."


End file.
